When I was at school, I wanted to be an author. I was going to be an author, and that the school careers teacher named it in a presentation (and without any notion of crushing dreams, I'm sure) as one of the only two careers he would advise pupils not to follow - I've completely forgotten the other one - was undeniably depressing, but not enough to put me off my Grand Plan. Even now I know there are little collections of yellowed paper tucked away, carrying the first few pages of early endeavours. They are, without exception, dreadful, and should all be binned, but to discard them would be to throw away the dream. I might have no expectation of settling down to write a book-sized work of fiction, but deep inside the desire remains.

Gradually the whole idea stepped back and further back into the shadows while life got on with happening. I constantly scribbled and doodled, but that was because it's how I see the world, through words and images. At a certain point printmaking became a thing, which answered a need in me I barely knew was there, and with book arts came an outlet for stories - again, I don't think I even realised that the need to create with words was still alive and kicking.

It's built much smaller these days, the writing thing. While - I admit it - a bigger story lives in the background, that one's rather like a comfort blanket. It's in my head more than on paper (yes, still paper) and it pleases me to toy with scenes and storylines and characters as a background activity, without in any way committing or ever intending to commit to more than that. Many of the stories that I play with for handmade books, on the other hand, are often so brief that 'story' is far too grand a word. Except that, increasingly, I see the world as built more of stories than of anything else. It's not an original idea by any means, and I accept that what I see as a story another person would call a slice of life. Just a thing. Nevertheless, I'm coming to realise that, one way or another, for me it's all about stories - some true to life, some not at all, most somewhere in between. The stories we tell others, the ones that make us look better or worse, weaker or stronger, even the ones that tell it the way we think we really are; the endless stories we tell ourselves to justify, deny, understand, reject; the stories we tell the world - not all stories are told with words, after all. Every stone circle, hedged field, garden, house, city, road - don't they all change the story of what the land is? Every law made, every war entered upon, do they not impose a new story on a people or a country? In return life imposes its own stories - brother, mother, unfortunate victim, lucky survivor. All stories. A simplistic way to look at things, perhaps, but not untrue.

Stories are not necessarily either good or bad in themselves, but I do find they are a way to cope with a world that can be chaotic, random, scary and the rest. If I can work on one small idea and bludgeon it into having some kind of shape and meaning for me, it might help to tidy away a thought that otherwise extends tendrils all over the place and causes my mind to resemble anything from candyfloss to christmas pudding. That already makes it worthwhile, in however small a way.

Prints tell stories to me too, though thus far very simple and almost accidental ones, but in books I can tentatively work through something more purposefully. Whether anyone else would notice is, to me, neither here nor there - some things are just personal. For now I'll keep on shaping them until I find better ways to move through the world.

Hi there

I make prints and book arts, though nowhere near as often as I'd like - no good reason, just an inability to get on with things. I occasionally go on about landscape (with which I am mildly obsessed) and various of its elements, and I like to pass comment on exhibitions I visit.